


There is only the past

by subito



Category: Sabrina the Teenage Witch (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito/pseuds/subito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wales at that time is exciting; full of new noises and shapes, textures and smells. For Zelda, this is true in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is only the past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [featherxquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherxquill/gifts).



Everything moves in waves. Even if it doesn’t. There is always a tiny fluctuation, appearing from nothing and subsiding into nothing, so short that it would go unnoticed if it wasn’t for the measurable effect that creates some sort of force. Zelda’s and Hilda’s relationship is no exception and recently subject to faster moving waves. This isn’t to say that their sisterly bond isn’t as strong as it used to be - it is, indeed, as strong as ever – but it’s that time in every other century when it is at its furthest stretch. They both agree that distance is, in this case, the only option that promises to ease the strain. And so Hilda joins a carnival in the other realm while Zelda moves to Wales.

Although she would never admit it, Wales isn’t where Zelda has intended to end up. Hilda had walked out in a huff, grabbed her pogo stick with a lasso and disappeared upstairs, accompanied by the telling sounds of thunder.  
Discomposed and fluttered, Zelda had waved her arms a bit too rapidly and the spell had gone wrong.

It’s the first evening that makes her stay. It’s the magic of the Rhondda. There are the fields which stretch as far as human eyes can see, crops bowing to the wind. There is the setting sun that compliments the colours and its rays are complimented by them. The exact moment Zelda decides to stay is when the sky starts to turn different shades of purple and red, and the magnificence of nature clashes with the hard reality of modern life. The wind turns and suddenly the clouds are painted black, and the strong smell of burnt coal overpowers the smell of freshly cut grass. It is being witness to that battle which fills her with excitement.

In the distance, hunched men hurry home without hats and lacking the jolly tunes their fairytale counterparts whistle in stories thought up a thousand miles south east, in a chamber lit only by candlelight.

She finds an inn with a free bed and listens to the people of the valley telling each other about their day until she falls asleep to their sing-songy voices.

Early the next day, Zelda approaches a group of men she briefly saw the other night and is sure are miners. They caught her interest because one of them starting talking about weird goings-on down the mine, the discovery of a new sort of stone that glittered and scared the horses.  
The men look at her with equal amounts of interest and suspicion when they see Zelda coming towards them and a lean, short one steps forward to ask her what she wants. Zelda recognises his voice from the night before, though it seems to be higher in the morning, free of smoke and alcohol. He gives her a slow look-over and Zelda straightens her back, looking him straight in the eye when she says she wants to work with them. The man looks at her consideringly for a moment and Zelda finds it hard to tell the man’s age for though the lines of his face suggest someone in their forties, his eyes twinkle with the mischief of a young boy.

He gives a hearty laugh then and tells her that even if they allowed women to still work in mines, she would only be suitable for a position as a trapper, opening and shutting ventilation doors, the work done by children. By the look of her fine, as he remarks without being able to hide a grin, but fragile figure, she should just apply for the kitchen to provide the men with food.

The unfairness and arrogance of that almost makes her stomp her feet. She manages to just pin an infuriated and challenging look on him as the men around him provide a background of laughter. The man in front of her, however, looks back just as challengingly and after a moment he raises one hand from his hips to call for silence. A smile plays around his mouth as he calls for someone to come up with a test of strength.

It’s not her finest hour but Zelda is taking cheating and teaching them a lesson over being humiliated just because she is a woman any day. She pushes the tram with one hand and leaves everyone stunned. The short man gives her a compunctious look of respect and holds out his hand. She shakes it and learns that his name is Caron and that his hands are almost smaller than her own.

In the following days Caron introduces her to everyone and she becomes a secret, but one that is worth keeping. They are short on men and even shorter on healthy ones. The tale of Zelda’s strength makes the rounds and within weeks of working as hard as everyone else she is earning her place among them. She learns how to use the tools most effectively, she learns how to calm the ponies, and she learns the stories of the people.

She also learns that she doesn’t make for a good spy. That’s the only way she can see it. The more trust she gains, the more people open up about strange happenings. But the more she talks to people, the more she starts to think of them as friends – and betrayal is not something she likes to consider.

Some speak of how they touched the stone with a tool and the tool disappeared. Some talk about a strange light that made the air seem foggy. Some even tell of voices coming out of the stones. It’s only happening in one part of the mine, where horses don’t reach and bigger lads struggle to move. Zelda isn’t allowed there yet but after two months she finally finds a way to stay behind and sneak off to satisfy her curiosity. She has thought about it most nights, comparing it to all the things she knows but none of them matched. The same sort of thoughts she’s had about Caron but, for the moment, the stone has most of her interest.

But as is so often the case, the subconscious is aware of connections that enter the conscious far later, a viscous river of thoughts that likes to stick to its place. So when Zelda has almost reached the wall of glowing stone and there is a figure standing right in front of it with zealous eyes, something clicks. Not one something but every little something, every little oddity, every little hint she has gathered in the past weeks:

When someone other than Caron talked about the stones in front of him, he played it down and suggested lack of oxygen. When she asked him about it, he made sure she was kept even further away. When he saw sparks flying out of her finger, he merely raised an eyebrow.

But there was something else, and it fell into place, now that the smudged face was illuminated by those stones and was Zelda’s to contemplate without the pressure of time.

When the other men drink too much, Caron drinks just enough. When the other men talk about their wives, Caron just nods. When the other men grow beards, Caron doesn’t. When the other men take off their shirts, Caron never does. When the other men take a communal shower, Caron never joins them.

It seems like a long thought process for Zelda but now her mind is racing and she needs to speak.

She says the name out loud and Caron turns to her with surprise and shock and an instant understanding of being caught. They both open their mouths to speak, and they both close their mouths for the lack of something valuable to say. There is a pain in Caron’s eyes, and fear.

Zelda has seen that look before when she saw her own reflection in the mirror after graduating and not being taken seriously. It’s the fear of judgment for something you can’t change, for something that shouldn’t matter. It’s also buried determination, something that isn’t buried anymore in Caron’s eyes.

A hand reaches to touch the stone and in an almost whisper Caron starts to tell Zelda about expectations and dreams and about knowledge very few mortals have. Zelda lays a hand on Caron’s shoulder and can’t help but ask how she came to know about the magical world, who had told her, who had shown her, who had inspired her.

Caron looks up with a sigh and eyes dull with sadness. Zelda hears that, in some way, she was just like Caron’s inspiration and when Caron starts to say the first syllable of Hilda’s name, the light bursts and Hilda comes slithering through the wall.

There are more than seven things happening at once and the brain fails to recognise more, so all everyone remembers is Zelda’s cry of “A portal!”, Hilda’s amusement at her lack of legs, Caron almost fainting, the light changing colour, a humming noise, another humming noise and the smell of cookies.

After the initial shock and Caron urging Zelda to do something, Hilda’s legs are restored and the portal sealed until Zelda can investigate it further.

They find a quiet corner in the inn, the men patting Caron on the back when they come in for having a pretty blonde on each arm. Hilda excitedly tells them how she escaped the carnival with a portal stone they had used to entertain themselves by scaring mortals. She was discovered, of course, and the spell hit her just as she came through. Caron, equally excited, tells Hilda about Zelda and how there was no doubt that they were sisters and that the stones must have had something to do with them. Zelda looks at Hilda and Caron and smiles inwardly at the workings of sisterly bonds and elastic bands, pulling together what belongs together. When Caron starts calling Hilda “cariad”, Zelda leaves them to it and spends the evening writing down possible uses for the portal stones.

Everything moves in waves. Even when it seems like repetition, it’s mostly amplification. Details change all the time, everywhere in time and space, in the mortal realm and the other one. That kind of repetition is still a way forward, even when the way forward is back.

-  
 _"There is no present in Wales,  
And no future;  
There is only the past"_

**Author's Note:**

> This is for featherxquill's yuletide prompt.  
> I hope that it is similar to what you wanted, thank you for making me venture into something I don't usually write. Hopefully, you enjoy it at least half as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> -  
> The title and the quote at the end are from R.S. Thomas's "Welsh Landscape"


End file.
